Large drops began falling, slow at first, sending up small puffs of dust as they struck the dry plain. A distant thunder rumble echoed from the high cliffs, followed by a faroff flash of lightning that illuminated the southeast horizon. Then the deluge fell in earnest. Saro stood upright, blowing water from her nosetip as she blinked at the sheeting curtains of heavy rain.
“Nobeast can see us now. Let’s head straight for the cliffs!”
Joining paws, they jogtrotted toward the foothills, battered by the relentless downpour. Lightning ripped over the dark skies in blinding sheets, while thunder boomed and banged overhead. Dust turned quickly to mud, their paws squelched into it. Springald tightly gripped the paws of Fenna and Saro. The intensity of the storm was frightening, she had never been out in open country at such a time before. At Redwall, it had been relatively easy to run inside and shelter from the elements, but out here it was different.
They gained the foothills, slipping and sliding up the wet grass. Bragoon shielded his eyes as he glanced upward.
“Keep goin’, it ain’t too far now. Yonder black hole that Horty spotted looks like it could be a cave of some sort. Let’s make it up that far an’ shelter.”
Horty’s wet paws slapped down in the sludge and mud. Wiping water from his eyes, he chanced a backward glimpse at his pursuers. Although the main body were still a respectable distance off, three fast runners had broken away and were coming doggedly onward, closing the distance considerably. The young hare bit his lip. The trio were armed with spears; if they got within throwing range, he would be finished. It was time for a change of plan. Still with stamina in reserve, Horty shot off to the right, back among the foothills, where he stood a chance of losing the Darrat mob.
Birug panted, squinching his eyes against the rain as he saw the hare change course and dart into the dunes. The High Kappin urged his rats on. “Catchim, or Hemper Figlugg make Burcha Glugg outta you!”
Topping a rise, Horty spotted the barely discernible hole in the cliffside, far along to his right. He tripped and went rolling downhill. Spitting grit and coated with sand, he swiftly picked himself up and pounded on to the next dune, muttering to himself, “Ears up, old lad, keep pickin’ ’em up an’ puttin’ ’em down, wot. Huh, if only the young skin’n’blister could see her handsome brother now—a blinkin’, gallopin’ sandbeast!”
A spear buried itself in the sand, not far behind him.
Birug appeared at the top of the hill that Horty had just come over. Two others trailed behind him. He seized the spear from one of them and flung it. The Darrat leader’s aim was bad—he watched the spear strike the hillside flat and slide back down. Birug rested a moment on all fours, fatigued.
Horty gained the next hilltop and turned. Holding a paw to his nose, he wiggled it and called out cheekily, “Bloomin’ old flesh scoffer, go an’ boil your own head an’ eat it, wot wot!”
Stung by the hare’s jibe, Birug hauled himself upright and came after the hare with renewed energy. Horty scuttled off, chiding himself for his momentary foolishness.
“Have to keep the old lip buttoned, wot! Seems a jolly determined type o’ cove for a rat, full of the old vermin vinegar. Curse his caddish hide!”
Afternoon passed, without the rain slackening its intensity. It was humid, without a trace of breeze. Rivulets gathered into swollen streams, racing down the cliffside in floods of umber-hued water.
Bragoon was first to reach the black hole. His prediction had been correct: it was a cave—large, dark and deep. He helped Springald and Fenna enter first, while Sarobando brought up the rear. Once inside, all four flopped down, exhausted. The otter shook himself like a dog and shrugged off the packs he had been burdened with.
“Whoo! Wretched weather, wonder when this rain’s due to stop?” He sat up against the right wall, peering out. “Come on Horty, mate, where’ve ye got to?”
Fenna joined him. “I hope he’s alright!”
Springald rose and began to wander off to explore the big cave, but Bragoon pulled her back.
“You stay close up here, miz. We don’t know wot might be back there. Can’t risk a fire, either—too dangerous. Break out some vittles, if’n they’re still dry enough, and a drink, too. Funny how ye can be out in the rain all day an’ still be thirsty.”
The mousemaid found dry oatcakes and some crystallised fruit, which they washed down with some home-brewed cider. Fenna stared out into the persistent downpour, then jumped slightly as thunder boomed out overhead.
Saro patted her shoulder. “Nought t’do but sit an’ wait, matey. Don’t fret now, that young rogue’ll make it.”
The squirrelmaid forced a smile. “If he’s not here soon, I’ll light a fire and make a pot of soup. Horty can smell vittles a league away. He’ll show up then, I wager.”
She sat miserably, pondering the foolishness of her statement. Horty could be lying slain out there in the rain.
Horty staggered gamely on, the three rats not more than six paces behind him. They had picked up their spears again and thrown them at him several times. With the courage of desperation, the young hare, having managed to avoid the throws, remained unscathed. Birug and his two rats had left the spears where they fell, and carried on, stubbornly pursuing the fugitive. It was only a matter of time now, and they would have him. As the High Kappin blundered forward, Horty moved out of his reach.
With his tongue lolling, the rat gasped out, “We . . . catcha!”
Horty stumbled, tripped and wriggled out of his reach. Gaining his footpaws, he stood panting. “Couldn’t . . . catch your old . . . grannie . . . Slobberchops!” He blundered on another pace or two, then collapsed.
Birug nodded to the other two rats. “Gerrim . . . now!”
All three crawled forward on their bellies, reaching out to lay paws on the fallen hare when, without warning, the hillside gave way, sliding down a tremendous avalanche of wet sand. It enveloped the three rats completely, burying them under a huge mound.
Horty lay at the edge of the mass, covered right up to his neck. He was trapped fast. A paw, almost the size of his own head, seized both of the hare’s long ears and yanked him out with one mighty pull. Horty revived with the pain, his eyes flickering open. He stayed conscious just long enough to see a lightning flash illuminate the head of a giant badger with a scar running lengthwise down its striped muzzle.
The young hare blinked. “Nice weather, wot . . . Oh, corks!” Then he passed out.
Only the Dibbuns slept upstairs in their dormitories that night, while every other Redwaller guarded the barricades. It was the longest, saddest night Martha had ever witnessed. The still form of Junty had been wrapped tenderly in blankets and borne down to the place he loved best, his cellars. Clearing the barrels and lifting some floorstones, Foremole Dwurl and his crew dug a grave for the good Cellarhog. Junty was laid to rest. Once the grave was filled in and the flooring stones replaced, Abbot Carrul took a charcoal and wrote words upon it. At some later day the moles would chisel the words into the stones as a permanent epitaph for a beast whom all Redwallers loved dearly. Tears often smudged the charcoal letters as Carrul wrote:
“Here lies a fallen warrior, slain by vermin whilst helping his fellow creatures. Hard working, good and faithful. A credit to his kind. Always a kind word or smile to all. Junty Cellarhog, Keeper of Redwall Abbey cellars. His October Ale was the best. Rest peacefully, old friend.”
Above stairs, Martha rolled her cart around Great Hall, relieving those who were wearied. When she was not doing that, the tireless haremaid helped Granmum Gurvel to ferry food from the kitchens.
Toran watched Martha—she was never still, always finding something to do for the common good. He halted the little cart with his rudder. “Come on, beauty, time ye took a nap or ye’ll be worn out.”